1While voices 'round me sound with glee,
Still that standing wall I see,
And not once will the humor be
The object of the stone.
If, in the graveyard down the mile,
The sun should show her ancient smile,
Never will the warmth beguile
The object of the stone.
And should the buildings, climbing high,
Reach their heads to heaven's sky,
It will not its peace supply
The object of the stone.
I often wish the wall would laugh,
The graveyard grin, the building faste,
And all benign (or even half)
Would touch the object of the stone.
But that is not to be its fate.
Pity to the agéd slate
That always bears upon it hate!
Shameless object of the stone.